Birds of the Air
by SalomeLily
Summary: Rose Weasley and Scorpius Malfoy have a Quidditch rivalry that never fails them, no matter how fleetly they fly.


**Written for Round 4 of the Quidditch League Competition. Prompt: start and end with the same adverb. Additional prompts: ground, bird, and "Wide Awake" by Katy Perry.**

Fleetly falling.

Malfoy was plummeting towards the distant green ground, a silvery streak of green barely visible through the pervasively drizzling mist. Clearly he had seen the Snitch. Rose braced herself and followed him, silently trying to urge her broom to be just that much faster. She was the superior player, but Malfoy was cunning. Of course, that was the signature Slytherin trait.

At the last possible second, he veered out of the dive, turning like a hawk and pulling elegantly upwards. Honestly, was he part bird? Rose shot up, a few tail twigs snapping off against the ground as she wheeled away from the unforgiving turf. Inelegant, but effective. Hovering safely above the Chaser-and-Beater action, she opened her mouth to swear violently and surprised herself by spitting out blood. Apparently, she had bitten her tongue rather hard during the fall. Well, Icarus had suffered worse.

There was a lot of pressure on the outcome of this game. Gryffindor and Slytherin were exactly even in the rankings, grudgingly sharing second place. Whichever team won this match would go on to face Ravenclaw in the final match of the season. Interaction between scarlet-clad players and their green opponents had grown especially tense in the past few weeks. Someone had left a note containing a mild hex for Gryffindor Keeper Freddy Weasley, and Slytherin captain Biagio Zabini had been sent to the Hospital Wing with mysterious purple boils on his face. Malfoy had been absolutely _unbearable_, constantly heckling Rose and her friends. Well, no more so that usual, but he seemed to have gotten even more arrogant. His smirk was _smirkier_ than ever before.

The really odd thing was, Lysander and Puja seemed to think that Malfoy was "flirting" with Rose. O, vile notion. Rose would rather have kissed Horatio, Felicia's pet toad, than Scorpius Malfoy. Admittedly, he _had_ gotten taller and better-looking in the past year, but a Malfoy was a Malfoy was a Malfoy. Besides which, Rose preferred tan guys, and Malfoy was perpetually pale. Not just inside-pale, closer to dungeon-prisoner pale. Always. His hair was colorless too, and his eyes were silver . . .

Gold, glinting auspiciously by the Slytherin goalposts.

With exponentially increasing eagerness and speed, Rose followed that shining promise. Her arrow-straight path was suddenly blocked by a stupid. Pale. Pointed. Face. Smirking grimly, or maybe that was his version of a scowl. Their brooms collided at a perpendicular angle, cutting Rose off so abruptly that her neck snapped forward dangerously fast. She _did_ swear this time, barely resisting the animalian urge to spit in his mocking little face as well.

"Sorry, Weasley. Not this time."

"What, no mocking diatribe? Or maybe you were being ironic, and taunting me by suddenly _not_ taunting me in your usual way."

"Paranoid, much?" He twisted slightly, locking their brooms together.

"I hate your face!"

"Really witty comeback, dear. And I thought you were getting on so well. Besides which, we both know that's not quite true."

With that, he suddenly barrel-rolled, spinning Rose so fast that she flipped off her broom and was left hanging by her left arm.

Rose Weasley had never been much of a screamer as a toddler, and she didn't scream now, just let the tension in her arm magnify by scores as she felt her life well up in her throat.

/_I wish I knew then what I know now. Wouldn't dive in, gravity hurts. . ._/

Strong, ungentle arms lifted her back onto her broom. Hot, confused breath was against her neck, and Rose felt some of the blood ebb away from her head and throbbing arm. She was sitting upright again, clutching the handle of her broom with death-white fingers.

Scorpius Malfoy hovered next to her for a moment, apparently verifying that she was alive. Then he grinned - _actually grinned_ - shakily.

"Close one, there, Rose Weasley. Careful who you get caught up with next time, yeah? Oh, look, the Snitch is gone."

Unwilling to think about what had happened just yet, Rose gulped a few ragged breaths and set off in pursuit of the unfeeling metal Snidget.

A familiar face interrupted her search. Freddy squinted at his favorite cousin with concern.

"What happened, Rosie? I saw that Malfoy bastard get in your face, and then . . .?"

"I slipped," she said truthfully. "Could've been nasty, but I'm fine now. Go on, the posts are unguarded!"

"If you're sure, then," he persisted. She nodded in confirmation, and Freddy sped back to the Gryffindor hoops.

Another darting bolt of green. He _had to_ have seen the Snitch this time . . . surely even Malfoy wouldn't pull another feint after his most recent almost-fatal stunt?

Green. Gold. Triumph, tasted like a breath of champagne. She _could_ outfly him. All of her senses were wide awake, thrumming like wings.

/_I picked up every piece, and landed on my feet_ . . . _I am trying to hold on . . ._/

Nimbly, so fleetly, she nipped ahead of him and took the Snitch.

Ordinarily, Rose might have coasted gently to the field, holding the Snitch aloft, her robes a glorious crimson banner. Now, though, she hit the ground hard, only peripherally aware that her flaming hair was soaking from the steadily thickening rain. Good, solid mud was never sweeter beneath her shoes as she dismounted. And when Malfoy landed solidly next to her, she claimed her enemy's kiss with unprecedented passion.

Their relationship could be summarized as follows: Six and a half years of mutual dislike, then a kiss. Layered within those years were two years of tension, one year of flat-out denial, and a Quidditch rivalry that never quit.

Friends-to-lovers is not an uncommon transition, and certainly not an illogical one in some cases, but enemies-to-lovers required a bit more talking. One post-Quidditch kiss in the rain did not necessarily mark the start of a relationship, they each reasoned seperately. Still, the redhead and the blond had more in common than they would like to admit, and everything would get sorted out with some in-depth conversation (and the aid of a raucous after-match party). He loved her fire and wit and candor. She loved his esprit and tenacity and, yes, eventually came to appreciate his smirk.

It had been a long time starting, but when they finally began their real journey together, they flew together so very fleetly.


End file.
